A portable decontamination station was locked to the hatchway. They stepped into the blued light of the first chamber, mercifully cool after the brilliance of the reactor control room, and Swannig resealed both hatches behind them.
"Green seal," he reported, after a moment, and O'Brien nodded.
"Run decontamination."
"Yes, sir," Carter said, and her gloved hands moved easily on the oversized controls. A thick mist, blued by the lights, hissed almost soundlessly from a hundred pores in the walls, rising until it filled the chamber completely. O'Brien turned in the fog as though it were a cleansing rain, lifting his arms and spreading his fingers to give the mist better access to every centimeter of the suit's surface. Through the fog, he could see the others doing the same, and heard Swannig whistling under his breath, a tune O'Brien didn't recognize. Carter apparently did: she chuckled, and hastily suppressed the sound.
"Radiation has dropped to acceptable levels," she announced, a moment later, and in the same moment the mist cut out, and the exhaust fans switched on. The mist vanished swiftly, dropping toward the floor where the exhaust vents were, and a minute later the light turned green over the second hatch. Swannig reached for the controls, hauled the door open, and they went through into the changing room. He closed the hatch behind them, whirling the handwheel.
"Green seal, Chief," he said. "All secure."
"Great," O'Brien said, and unlatched his helmet. He lifted it off, then freed himself from the heavy gloves and, finally, rubbed the sweat out of his eyes. The changing room was crowded, only a few meters between the rows of lockers that held the protective suits, and it took concentration to keep from bumping into each other. O'Brien wriggled out of the thick suit, retrieved the internal data cartridge from the recorder, then stowed the suit and the gloves, helmet, and boots in their locker. He tucked the cartridge into his belt, and then stood waiting while Swannig wrestled his equipment into place.
"Sorry, Chief," the shorter man said, and Carter muttered something half under her breath.
"Slow as molasses, Chris."
"All right," O'Brien said. "Let's get out of here."
Carter swung the hatch wheel, and they stepped out into the larger compartment. O'Brien stretched, glad to be out of the cumbersome suit, then slipped the cartridge into the nearest data reader. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two technicians exchange glances, and then come to look over his shoulder. They were much of a height—Carter was tall, Swannig on the short side—and both fair-skinned blonds, and O'Brien thought, not for the first time, that they looked more like brother and sister than any unrelated people had a right to do.
"So," Carter said, "what's this all about, anyway, Chief?" O'Brien didn't answer for a moment, scrolling through the pages of raw data, then grunted with satisfaction as he found the section he wanted. "You said you nearly finished tracing this section?"
Carter leaned closer. "Yeah."
"How long will it take you, do you think?"
She shrugged. "Maybe twenty minutes—thirty if there's a problem."
"All right. We'll concentrate on that tomorrow, then." O'Brien looked at the rough diagram for another long moment, then turned to face his technicians. "What I'm looking for—and I want you to keep this under your hats for now, no spreading it around the station, or even to the other techs, Chris—is a way to tap some of that raw power. It looks to me as if we could tap this section of the old power conduit here without risking a radiation leak—put in an exchange node here at the old feeder."
Swannig leaned past him, frowning slightly. "We won't get much power out of it, not without risking overload. That system's not even close to stable."
"I know it," O'Brien said. "But I don't want much." He grinned in spite of himself, still unreasonably pleased by the possibilities. "Whatever we can tap, we feed it direct to the phasers—if everything goes right, according to my preliminary calculations we can double the phaser output for at least three minutes before we risk further damage to the reactors."
Swannig nodded slowly, still studying the diagram. "That assumes that the conduit's still sound out here, of course."
"It was good all the way in," Carter said. "There's less reason to expect damage there."
"And radiation levels are low enough there that we can do minor repairs," O'Brien said. "Then we install an exchange node here, and we're home free."
Both technicians nodded slowly, and Swannig said, "Elegant."
"It's that pirate, isn't it?" Carter asked. "That's what this is about."
O'Brien looked at her for a long moment, and nodded. "Commander Sisko wants us to take all possible precautions." He watched their faces, seeing the sudden sobering as the thought took form, and added, trying for a lighter note, "Besides, I've been wanting to get the phasers up to their proper ratings for a while now. But that's for tomorrow. Come on, I'll buy you a drink to celebrate."
The technicians grinned dutifully, but he could tell he hadn't entirely reassured them. Well, it hasn't reassured me, either, he thought, and followed them toward the nearest turbolift for the long ride up twenty-five levels to the Promenade. It hasn't reassured me at all.
CHAPTER 7
ODO STARED AT the list of ships currently in the docking ring, well aware that his face showed a very human expression of disgust. It was, he thought, something of a pity that there was no one here to observe the cultivated effect. But he had good reason to be disgusted: there, among the new arrivals, was a name that stood out like a beacon. He had been dealing with Carabas since his first days as constable, since the days of the Cardassian occupation, and he knew perfectly well what Carabas and her crew were really up to. Of course, under the Cardassians, Carabas's two-man crew had run guns and software to the Bajoran resistance, but the Bajorans had never been their only customers. They had sold just about anything to just about anybody, and Odo had done his best to stop them, but he had never been able to get solid evidence against them. I suppose I could have bought a conviction, he thought—the two smugglers certainly never scrupled to buy their way out of trouble, and the Cardassians running the station never hesitated to dispense their version of justice to the highest bidder—but it would not have been satisfying. Nor would it have been right, and that, in the end, had been the deciding factor. And now Carabas was back on DS9.
For an instant, Odo considered contacting Sisko, recommending that the ship and its crew be expelled from the station, but even as he reached for his communicator he dismissed the thought. He had no evidence—had never been able to collect enough evidence to convince Gul Dukat, never mind Sisko. And Sisko would not consent to removing them without evidence. "Odo to Zhou."
There was a brief pause, and then the young ensign answered. "Zhou here. What can I do for you, sir?"
"This ship, the Carabas, that just landed. Is the crew still aboard?"
"No, sir, I don't think so—no, they left a few minutes ago. Is there a problem?"
"Not yet," Odo said. "I want a watch posted on that ship—at least two men, round-the-clock surveillance."
"Very well, Constable," Zhou said. "Should they be looking for anything in particular?"
"Anything at all," Odo said, grimly. "Do you have any idea where the crew went?"
"I don't," Zhou said, "but they were talking to Aimoto. Let me ask her."
There was a little silence, and Odo drummed his fingers almost soundlessly against the desktop. It was impossibly frustrating to know that Carabas and her crew were at best troublemakers, and at worst dangerous to the station, and to be able to do nothing about it…
"Sorry, Constable," Zhou said. "Aimoto says they said something about going to the Promenade, but that's all she knows."
"Thank you, Odo said, and cut the connection. That was actually quite enough: he knew the smugglers well enough to guess where they would be found. He pushed himself away from his desk, and headed out into the Promenade.
Most of the people crowding the shopfronts were Bajorans, but the
re were more than a few nonhumans, and a sprinkling of off-duty Starfleet personnel, made conspicuous by their uniforms. Odo made his way through the crowd, glancing quickly into Quark's—not particularly busy at this point in the station's day—and then rode the turbolift to level ten. There were fewer people there, as he had expected, a pair of Bajorans in drab work clothes busy at an open panel, and a Starfleet technician with her boyfriend. Beyond the technician, two men stood by one of the massive windows, peering intently toward the apparent emptiness that concealed the wormhole. Odo was frowning, trying to remember if a ship had been scheduled to go through the wormhole now, when blue-white light flared beyond the window. He blinked, and saw the familiar blue disk appear, swirling out from the now-visible wormhole. Its center swelled, almost too fast to follow, and opened, emitting a shaft of light. The wedge shape of a starship rose with it, dark against that brilliance. It hung open for an instant longer, vivid blue against the stars, and then spun back into itself, contracting to a pinpoint of light that flared and then went out. The two men stood motionless for a moment longer, and then the taller clapped the other on the shoulder and turned away.
"Looks like water going down the drain."
"A true romantic, you are." The second man stopped abruptly, smile vanishing as he saw Odo.
"Gentlemen," the constable said, and allowed himself a thin smile at their sudden wariness. "Mr. Möhrlein, Mr. Tama. I didn't expect to see you back on DS9."
"Constable Odo," Vilis Möhrlein said. He was the taller of the two, and very fair, with white-blond hair cut short around his face. He would, Odo thought, be considered quite handsome by most humans. "It's good to see you again."
"Nice to see you kept your job," Kerel Tama said, and showed teeth in a distinctly unfriendly grin. He was shorter than Möhrlein by a hands-breadth, and had darker, long brown hair straggling to his shoulders in an untidy mane. It was streaked with grey now, more than there had been the last time Odo had seen him, and the constable took some satisfaction in the change.
"I have some things to say to you, gentlemen," Odo went on, ignoring Tama's jibe.
"We're a little busy right now, Constable," Möhrlein said. "Got some people to see, some—business—to arrange. Can it wait?"
"We can talk here and now," Odo said, "or you can come down to my office. I'd be happy to send someone to escort you."
Tama's mouth twisted into a sour grimace. Möhrlein said, "I hardly think that's necessary. What's on your mind, Odo?"
"You." Odo smiled again, without friendliness. "I simply want you to know that I have my eyes on you. If you make the slightest untoward move, you will be thrown off this station so fast you'll think you're making warp speed. And you will be permanently banned from docking here. Too many things happen around you two."
"Now, wait a minute," Tama began, and Möhrlein cut in smoothly.
"This is Federation space now, Constable, you can't just ban us without good reason—without even a hearing."
"Do you really want a hearing, Möhrlein?" Odo asked, and was pleased to see the smuggler's gaze flicker. "Besides, this is a Bajoran station. There is a Federation presence here, but the station belongs to Bajor."
"And we've done good service to Bajor in our time," Tama said. "People will remember that."
"You did those services at a very high price," Odo answered. "I think your erstwhile customers will remember that, too."
Möhrlein said, "Constable, I know we've had our differences in the past, but that was under Cardassian rule." He spread his hands, displaying palms empty except for a long scar across the left, legacy of an argument with one of Gul Dukat's junior officers. Odo scowled, remembering that evening—he had been the one to pick up the pieces—and Möhrlein instantly closed his hand again. "We've gone legitimate since the war, gone back to honest trading. It's just too dangerous, now that the Federation's become a presence in this sector. It's not worth it."
"I find that hard to believe," Odo said. "The profits are still considerable."
Möhrlein shrugged. "We're getting old, Odo. I'm not up to that anymore, not that life." He looked at Odo, suddenly serious, the teasing note utterly vanished from his voice. "You can search Carabas from bow to stern—I'll even open up the old secret compartments for you. We're legit now, Odo. I can't afford not to be."
Odo considered them for a moment. His hand was weaker than they realized, or so he hoped—Sisko would never let him expel them without due process—but at least his bluff had gotten him this much of a concession. "I'll take you up on that offer, Möhrlein. Now."
Möhrlein opened his mouth as though to protest, closed it again. "All right," he said, "but at least let me call Quark, let him know I'll be delayed."
Quark, Odo thought. That doesn't give me a lot of confidence in your honesty. His lips thinned, but he gestured to the nearest intercom box. "Go ahead." Möhrlein nodded, his expression still perfectly sober, and touched the intercom's miniature controls. "Quark?" A voice answered, barely audible from where Odo stood, and Möhrlein said, "Well, get him. Please."
There was another little pause, and Odo glanced at Tama, wondering just what had brought the two men back to DS9. He had always thought that they would use their ill-gotten gains to move closer in to the center of the Federation, where the profits and risks were both higher. . . . Tama saw him watching, and something, a flicker of irritation, or of regret, crossed his broad face. Or was there something more? Odo wondered. Something perhaps more like…fear? That seemed unlikely—Federation law was far less strict than Cardassian; all a smuggler risked was a fine or a possible jail term, not the loss of life or limb—but nonetheless the feeling persisted. Odo scowled again, wishing he understood human expressions more clearly, and dragged his attention back to Möhrlein.
"—going to be a little delay," the blond man was saying. "Customs problems." He paused, listening, and Odo could hear the angry cadence of Quark's words. Möhrlein grinned, slanting a glance at Tama, and said, "We'll be in as soon as it's settled, Quark. You shouldn't get so upset about these things—go find someone to rub your ears, that'd do you some good."
He took his finger off the button, cutting Quark off in mid-rant, and looked at Odo. "I—We're at your disposal, Constable."
"Then we'll go," Odo said, grimly. He touched his own communicator. "Inspection team, stand by, docking bay five."
It took the better part of two hours to go over Carabas with fine-grain scanners, and another hour to make a visual inspection of the cargo. Möhrlein was as good as his word, unsealing various hidden compartments, and Odo did his best to pretend he had known of all of them before. Some he had—he remembered, quite distinctly, the pleasure of prying open a section of floorboard that had proved to hide a shielded storage compartment; he remembered with equal clarity the bitterness of the disappointment when he realized it was empty—but he made a mental note of several others, promising himself that he would be sure to add those sections to the automatic search lists. The cargo was unexceptionable: spare machine parts for several different Bajoran groups, some agricultural hardware en route to the group trying to salvage the most damaged sections of Bajor's surface, and several starcrates of high-value, low-mass luxury items that Möhrlein claimed he had bought on speculation, hoping to sell them either to merchants on the station itself, or on Bajor. Odo went over those crates three times, but finally had to concede that they were exactly what they seemed.
"Very well," he said, at last, and gestured to the inspection team, dismissing them. "But things do seem to—happen around you, Möhrlein. I will be keeping an eye on you."
"I wouldn't expect otherwise," Möhrlein answered, and sounded almost resigned.
Odo nodded sharply, and stepped through the main hatch. He started down the ramp to the floor of the docking bay, and at the bottom glanced back, to see the two humans watching him, their faces completely without expression. Tama saw him turn, and forced a smile, lifting a hand in almost-mocking farewell. Odo's lips thinned, and he
turned away. They were up to something, of that he felt certain; he was equally certain that he didn't have enough proof of it to convince Sisko to throw them off the station. But I will watch them, he promised himself. I, my people and I, will keep them under full surveillance, and the first wrong move they make—well, I will be ready for it.
* * *
It was busy in Ops, the bustle that always came at the end of the civilian day, and Dax found herself caught up as always in the whirl, dividing her attention between the station's sensor net, now at its maximum expansion, and the myriad demands of the changing crews. And then, at last, the flurry of activity died away again, the civilian crew gone off duty, only Starfleet personnel remaining for the night watch. Dax smiled to herself, acknowledging her enduring pleasure in the transformation, and turned her attention to the science console. The Vulcan filter seemed to be working as promised, but she was still less than happy with the Cardassian scanners. She ran her hands over the controls, calling up the diagnostics, and let the programs run, watching the readings flicker over her screens. Everything seemed to be in order—seemed to be better than in order, all systems functioning at top capacity. And still they had found nothing in the asteroid belt. She tilted her head to one side, studying the results of the most recent scan. Still nothing, not even a glimpse of an asteroid or any glitch in the system to explain that one anomalous reading, and that, she thought, made no sense at all. If it was Helios, cloaked or not, she would have expected to catch some hint of the ship's presence by now; if it wasn't, if it was either some natural phenomenon or an artifact of the scanners itself, it, whatever it was, should have happened again.
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